No Good On My Own
by The Noble French Fry
Summary: They'd deliberately taken it slow. Ten years – it was a snail's pace. A snail with a handicap. A snail with a handicap and the late stages of a terminal illness. And in one glorious moment of stupidity, he'd ruined it all. Pepperony angst.


**Title:** No Good On My Own**  
Fandom:** Iron Man**  
Prompt/Claim: **#14:On My Own; lj user=20_fics, Table 4, Iron Man: Tony/Pepper**  
Summary:** They'd deliberately taken it slow. Hell, ten years – it was a snail's pace. A snail with a handicap. A snail with a handicap _and_ the late stages of a terminal illness. And in one glorious moment of stupidity, he'd ruined it all.**  
Rating:** PG (allusions)**  
Pairings/Characters**: Tony/Pepper**  
Length:** 2,000 words**  
Genre(s):** angst**  
A/N:** I introduced myself to the fandom with cuteness in "The Finite Application of Rules." Now the truth is peeping out… I'm a cold-blooded angster. Angst warning on this one, peeps. *hides*

* * *

He'd flown for hours and hours to get here, and he didn't even know where he was. Didn't want to.

There was sand. Lots of it. Not much else.

He'd plunged himself into it and now lay on his back, half-buried, staring up at the impossibly large, impossibly clear sky.

He didn't know where exactly he was, but hot, sandy and uncomfortable, it reminded him of Afghanistan. It reminded him of the days after he'd escaped and wandered the desert. He deserved that. The cold-sweat panic thoughts of Afghanistan usually brought on didn't come. He was too numb.

The suit's GPS was off. The communications were off. JARVIS was off. Everything was off.

It was just Tony, the sand and his thoughts.

* * *

_He woke up, as he usually did, first. A line of grayish orange had barely begun to creep over the horizon as he rolled onto his back and drew back his eyelids._

_Barely enough light shone through the wall of windows to see the red hair spilled across his pillows. Red hair. He loved redheads, but he rarely slept with them. But this was familiar hair of that oddly perfect shade of coppery red-gold. _That_ hair. Spilled across the dark-colored pillows that littered _this _bed. His real bed, not the one down the hall that women typically saw._

_Her face, that perfect face that he'd seen shaped in so many different expressions that he loved, was coated in peace. Relaxed, smooth, her lips even curved in a slight smile._

_She stirred ever so slightly, mumbled something between those smiling lips. He froze, but she just resettled and fell back into peaceful slumber._

_Something sank in the pit of his stomach._

_Tony remained frozen, eyes fixed on her._

_Sudden panic gripped him. He didn't know what to do. This was usually the point where he left and Pepper took care of things. Only this time, well, it _was_ Pepper. Perplexed by that paradox, he found it hard to draw his breath in and out correctly._

_So he left._

_Uncomfortably, he swung his legs over the side of the bed, threw on some clothes and padded out of the room and down the hall. He ended up in the _other _bedroom. The one things usually started out in, the one he never slept in. The one Pepper had refused to enter last night, the one she only entered for cleanup._

_For a moment, he contemplated crawling into the plush king-sized bed and falling back to sleep. Fifteen uncomfortable minutes of lying there, painfully awake despite the exhaustion, convinced him it was a horrible idea._

_The next one was, he thought, better. He got out of the house and took a walk, trying futilely to clear his mind and figure out the discomfort in his chest and the pit of his stomach.

* * *

_

It was only later that he realized his own stupidity.

He realized it now in painful, _exquisite_ detail. His reaction had been the exact opposite of what he should have done.

They'd deliberately taken it slow. Hell, ten years – it was a snail's pace. A snail with a handicap. A snail with a handicap and the late stages of a terminal illness. All in the name of making it different, making sure it was perfect.

And in one glorious moment of stupidity, he'd ruined it all.

* * *

_When he returned, the sun arcing over the horizon, there was a letter of resignation – a typical, cool, crisp, perfectly professional and impersonal letter of resignation – sitting on his kitchen counter. Signed Virginia Potts. Atop it was the single personal touch: a sticky note that read "I'm sorry we knew it'd be this way."_

_All other traces of her were gone. She had vanished into thin air._

_Just like that.

* * *

_

The heat here, the sand, the blinding brightness all hurt.

Being here, alone, having to confront these thoughts, memories, with nothing else to do was truly painful. (Of course, that's why he was here.)

It was even more excruciating to realize your dependence on something you no longer had.

* * *

"_I don't think you could even tie your shoes without me."_

"_I'd make it a week." He knew better the second the words left his lips, but in true Tony Stark form, they were out there and couldn't be taken back._

"_Really? What's your Social Security Number?"_

"…_five."_

"_Five? You're missing a few digits."_

"_I have you for the other eight."

* * *

_

The other eight. Seven days a week. Essentially 24 hours a day.

He had her for all of that.

Or rather, he _had_ had her for all of that.

This, right now, was the product of _trying_ to go a week without her. The frustration, the impossibility, had culminated in this glorified self-deprecating pity-fest in the middle of some godforsaken desert.

Now… There was nothing. No one left to run his life but himself. Any other assistant was a pale imitation of Pepper. No matter how well she did, no other assistant would know what he wanted before he asked for it. No other assistant would take the time to learn that he liked blue ink pens, not black, not red, and that he liked espresso on Mondays, black coffee Tuesdays and Wednesdays, lattes on Fridays.

No other assistant would have the time. He fired them all within two days, most within six hours. Pepper had been his for a decade.

_His._

That was the distinction. The others were assistants to Tony Stark. Pepper was Tony Stark's assistant.

She told him what to do and he never questioned her. Questioned the work, yes, questioned why and when and how he had to do it, but never her.

She was Pepper. Pure, unflappable, undaunted, unshakable Pepper. The most complex, unbelievable combination of authority and submission. Constant. Steady. Controlled. So beautiful it sometimes took his breath away.

Too good for him. He knew it. Had known it, tucked in some discreet corner of his mind, for years. That hadn't stifled hope, hope that built with the number of years she stayed with him.

* * *

"_I don't have anyone but you._"

* * *

When he finally dragged himself from the sand that now had nearly covered him and flew home, he was in a daze. He didn't know how long he'd been there – days, probably. He hadn't noted the cycles of light and dark, the number of times he slept fitfully and awoke again in the same place. His limbs were stuff, his mouth was dry, his stomach roared. He barely noticed. He was numb all over, inside and out, and he didn't _want_ to feel.

It was dark when he finally touched down back at the mansion and the armor was peeled away from his body.

Leaving him feeling exposed, weak, unsupported.

He turned and saw a ghost of the one who haunted him standing there in the doorway of the workshop.

She was more disheveled than his typically neat, prim-and-proper image of Pepper. Red-gold hair untamed, white shirt and jeans – had he ever really seen her in jeans? – wrinkled, eyes puffy. Numbed, brain-dead from days in the desert wishing it on himself, it took him several minutes of staring to realize that a ghost Pepper would be his usual Pepper, not this stricken Pepper.

"What are you doing here?" he wanted to ask. His cracked lips wouldn't form the words.

Her lower lip trembled, she stayed frozen in place, looking like she would fall to pieces on the spot, but she evidently could speak. "Where have you been?" she whispered.

Belatedly, he realized why she was here, why she looked so disheveled. A barb of pain stabbed through his chest. "I don't know," he croaked. His voice was barely human. "How long…?" His throat was so dry, he couldn't finish the sentence. Water. He needed water, but he was rooted to the spot.

"Three days," she said, voice still barely a whisper. Her eyes were wide. "Are you… OK?"

He glanced down at himself. He wasn't actually sure. Nothing seemed to be gashed or bleeding. Suddenly, his body seemed to remember the last three days, turning itself into jello. He wobbled, grabbing the table in front of him to support himself. He managed to stay upright.

"Tony. Are you OK?" she repeated.

His mind was beginning to work again. He knew what she was really asking. She was asking for permission to leave again. Concern, a lingering sense of obligation, had brought her here. Without either, she was free to leave again. This was a temporary suspension of their circumstances.

She took a half step toward him, repeating again, "_Tony_, are you OK?"

He looked up at her then, trying his best to wet his mouth enough to get the words out. "No," he responded. "Pep, I'm no good on my own." His voice cracked around the words.

His eyes roamed over the worktable he was clinging to, searching for something he could down. He spotted a half-empty water bottle halfway down the table and slowly pulled himself toward it. If he couldn't drink something, he couldn't speak, and he had to get the words out for _her_.

He started to round the table, reaching for the water bottle. He'd made it three steps before he wobbled. His head might have been restarting, but his body was still jello.

Blinking, he tried another step—

Pepper crossed the room and caught him before he hit the floor. His weight slumped relentlessly toward the concrete, but she held him remarkably well, easing him down with one arm under each of his.

He shouldn't have been surprised at her strength. He'd always known his Pepper was strong. She had to be to put up with him for so long. He'd put her through a million different levels of hell over the years. He'd just finally reach the level where she wouldn't take it anymore.

"Tony."

Her voice pleaded with him from somewhere near his left ear.

He didn't know for what.

"Why did you do this?" she continued.

He tried again to speak and this time failed. His voice was no more than a gurgle. "Water," he managed to croak.

Almost instantly, she produced a bottle for him, and he downed it greedily. His mouth and throat were still dry after the bottle was drained, but they were clear enough that he could at least talk.

"I'm no good on my own," he repeated.

He could hear her inhale and exhale slowly. "And yet you choose it." The venom in her quiet voice surprised him. She released him and stood, stepping over him. By then, she was business Pepper again, cool, professional and unfeeling. He wasn't in immediate danger of dying; her curiosity was satisfied, her obligation fulfilled.

"Take care of yourself, Mr. Stark," she said. The words carried an edge, a plea, a hundred meanings all at once.

"That's what I have you for," he called pathetically at her retreating back.

She paused only momentarily, faltering one step, but then kept walking.

"I'm sorry," he threw out.

She stopped this time at the doorway. She didn't look back, but she stopped.

His throat burned, but he had to thrust out the words that were building behind his ribcage. "I'm sorry. I panicked. I didn't know what to do. It's… been a long time. I was lost."

She half-turned her head so he could only see half her face and she could only see him from the corner of her eye.

"You've got all that genius, Tony." Her voice was cold. "Figure it out."

With that, she mounted the stairs and was gone.

Just like that.

He laid there for a moment, shocked and stunned, then belatedly he dragged himself to his feet. He stumbled his way across the room to the stairs, grabbing onto anything in his way to keep himself upright.

"JARVIS," he called frantically as he dragged himself up the stairs.

"Sir?"

His throat and lungs were on fire now from the dehydration meeting a combined shortness of breath from exertion and too much talking too fast. "Lock the front door – lock the back door – lock all the doors."

"Sir, Miss Potts has already left. You cannot stop her."

At the top of the stairs, Tony collapsed in defeat.

* * *

_TBC (in a sequel fic)? Depends on reviews and inspiration!_


End file.
